


a Sunday morning at a window (and beyond)

by Siriusstuff



Series: Generation X++: AO3 Tag Generator Prompt Fics [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (I guess it's kinky), (sort of), Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Bottom Derek, Brief oral sex, Domestic Fluff, Domestic Kink, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, I Don't Even Know, M/M, Married Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Mild Kink, Neighbors, Prompt Fic, Smut, involuntary voyeurism, voyeur doesn't even know it's happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:09:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4198566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siriusstuff/pseuds/Siriusstuff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While conversing with their senior citizen neighbor (who's a very nice lady but talkative) from their window, Stiles does things to Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a Sunday morning at a window (and beyond)

**Author's Note:**

> I discovered the AO3 Tag Generator. It generated "kinky suburban fingering." This is my response.

Not everyone wears sweat well.

Derek Hale, Derek _Stilinski_ -Hale more exactly (and legally), wore it _very_ well.

Stiles, with his first cup of coffee in front of his face, had been staring blankly into space until Derek appeared at the back door.

The sight of his husband in baggy old basketball shorts and a saturated tank top, low cut under the arms so it showed a lot of torso, was something to focus on— _really_ something.

While still in the light of the outdoors Derek gleamed with perspiration. Once inside he was just sweaty—still magnificent, but now not so gleaming.

Derek took just one look at him and, as if reading the thought bubble above Stiles’s head, smirked on his way to the fridge for a bottle of water which he gulped down with throaty swallows.

“Beautiful even when you’re gross,” Stiles stated, tweaking his assessment, of course, with his signature _tone_.

Derek, his water bottle drained, lowered it from his lips, then smiled more than smirked. Then belched.

“And… gross,” Stiles restated, “even when you’re beautiful.”

Derek stepped up close to him.

“ _Nooo_!” Stiles wailed. “Don’t touch me!” he whined.

He pouted then puckered his lips. Derek lay his lips on Stiles’s but next grabbed him and smeared his sweaty face against Stile’s face.

He trotted hastily away, up the steps, leaving Stiles groaning in disgust—ironically, perhaps, considering sometimes Stiles licked sweat from Derek’s body—though only sex sweat. (There _was_ a difference.)

It was not their first “good morning.” Two hours earlier a lusty fuck had started off their Sunday. Stiles went back to sleep but Derek, with his werewolf stamina, after only a brief breather, had donned his running garb for his usual extended Sunday morning run.

At the table, Stiles considered mixing the unpalatable smoothie Derek liked after his run, but he wanted to enjoy his coffee whilst it was still hot.

And so he did.

Derek returned downstairs. He’d showered and put on only sweatpants, once again challenging Stiles to choose which he more esteemed, sweatpants dick or sweatpants ass. He could never decide and probably never would.

But he sent his silent praises heavenward for whomever had invented sweatpants, for they were truly a boon to humankind. Especially now that Derek, fresh air fiend and lover of light, had begun opening curtains, raising windows, showing his back to Stiles: the span of his shoulders, their corded muscles, that tattoo whose triple whorls Stiles had traced with his fingers, his tongue, his nose even, and even his dick. And then there was— _dat azz_. At that moment Derek’s sweatpants sagged so that the top of each butt cheek swelled into view, with the cleavage between, gateway to untold wonders.

Stiles was probably an ass man.

Until Derek’s dick was in his face, then he was a dick-lover.

But something was happening, potentially terrible. At a dining room window after parting the curtains Derek had stopped moving. Through the screen Stiles could hear— _the voice_.

_The voice of Letty!_

Letitia Price, their next door neighbor, loquacious vivacious sixty-something, who baked them cherry pies, apple turnovers and blueberry cobblers, scones (which she often accompanied with a jar of homemade orange marmalade), and who from Thanksgiving to Yule always brought them at least four baskets of assorted cookies fresh from her oven. (Derek, being Derek, kept sweets consumption to a minimum, leaving most of Letty’s treats for Stiles to gobble up, only his high metabolism keeping his outline from matching Chester’s, Letty’s husband of forty-plus years, who in all the time they’d been neighbors had spoken maybe eleven words.)

Letty Price, Stiles loved her, he did. (Bakers were amongst Stiles’s favorite people.) But Stiles also said that if small talk were an Olympic event then Letty Price would be a gold medalist.

If anything about his husband vexed Stiles Stilinski-Hale it was his inability to extricate himself from one of Letitia’s monologues. Derek was too polite (though that’s not the word Stiles would use) to excuse himself, so for as long as Letty spoke, Derek listened.

“Der-rek,” Stiles groaned, “ _nooo-ooo-ooo_.”

Derek neither moved nor responded.

“ _Dooonnn’t_.”

Nothing.

“I’m not helping you get free, Derek.”

Derek reached behind to scratch his back—with his middle finger.

“Oh, ho, ho, ho, ho,” Stiles chortled, with faux malevolence, leaving his seat, headed to his espoused.

“The sweat was one thing, Big Bad, but _this_ ,” Stiles said, at conversational level, Letty’s voice unceasing in the background, as he sidled up to Derek, put his arm round his shoulders.

“Good morning, Letitia!” he blurted out to his neighbor.

She stood with a light-weight rake in hand where she’d been grooming the strip of sparse grass between their houses. Behind her, on the steps to a side entrance were potted aloe and cactus and on the porch in a large pot was a plant with huge green leaves so glossy that despite his having seen Letty water it Stiles insisted it was plastic though Derek said it was a kind of ficus.

“Good morning, honey!” Letty cheered. “I was just telling Derek Chet and I went to Riley Park yesterday morning to see little Annie in a t-ball game. I’d never known there was any such thing…” And onward Letty narrated.

Stiles moved his hand from Derek’s shoulder to the back of his neck, firmly massaging there with thumb on one side, fingers on the other. There were points all over Derek’s body which Stiles knew, when pressed, turned Derek from apex predator to purry kitten.

Stiles felt it happening, heard Derek softly moan.

“I know _that_ made you proud,” Stiles inserted at an appropriate if fleeting pause. He maintained the appearance of rapt attention to Letty’s interminable palaver.

He slowly dragged his middle finger down along the spinal ridge of Derek’s back and when he met sweatpants he slid his hand over the fabric, caressing Derek’s firm ass with an occasional innocent squeeze.

“…Do you know how much money those darn lights cost, to light that darn field?...” Letty carried on.

Stiles moved from fabric clad butt to the bare skin of Derek’s lower back, finding the sacral dimples he explored blindly, which usually were playgrounds for his tongue.

Derek discreetly moved a hand behind himself, to stop Stiles’s explorations. Stiles batted it away, chuckling so that only Derek could hear—not that Letitia would have ever realized even if she’d heard.

Having been challenged Stiles slid his hand under the sweatpants’ waistband and onto Derek’s ass, his smooth palm against fuzzy cheeks. Gently he scratched there.—He _loved_ Derek’s ass fuzz.

Derek released some breaths like snorts. Again he brought his hand behind himself to defend his butt but Stiles would not be deflected. He pressed his fuck-you finger against Derek’s hole, tenderly stroking it.

“…If I’ve told Chester once I’ve told him thousands of times, that girl wants my recipe let her ask me herself. It’s only right…”

Stiles could barely contain his giggles, feeling Derek squirm, seeing his toes curl up off the floor.

“Letty, have you ever thought of publishing them?” Stiles asked, with his smiling poker face.

“Oh, heavens no, dear!”

Faking a sudden fit of coughing Stiles turned out of Letty’s view, brought his left hand to his mouth and fellated his middle finger till it was slick, coated with as much spit as he could render. He finished with more fake coughing and got back in frame.

“You’re not getting a cold, sweetie, are you?” Letty asked. She _was_ a dear soul.

“No, just have a dry mouth,” Stiles assured.

“Be glad it’s not dust allergies! Even with our dry climate I’m always telling Chet, we need de-humidifiers if you ever want me to stop sneezing!...”

Derek regarded Stiles through slit eyes, breathing through his mouth like he did when they were in bed, at a hot session’s start.

“Not done here, baby,” Stiles informed him, without moving his lips.

Derek’s defending hand was in place outside his sweatpants and over his backside. But just then Letty addressed a question to Derek, regarding Derek’s willingness to buy de-humidifiers if his husband Stiles needed them, and that’s how Stiles’s hand got through, his now spittle slippery finger poised at the entrance to Derek’s world within. That entrance Stiles had coaxed open maybe thousands of times—who was counting?—but never more determinedly than at that moment.

With skillful strokes and subtle but definite screwing motion Stiles squeezed through the snug ring and rested there in the feverish heat, letting Derek adjust and recover—lest his knees buckle before the eyes of their senior citizen neighbor.

“My goodness, honey, you too?” Letty inquired, her ever-present concern for her neighbor boys bubbling up at the sight of Derek’s wobbling and the strange sound he’d just emitted, which was his failed effort at disguising a guttural moan with a cough.

“Oh, he’s fine, Letty,” Stiles declared, pressing his finger deeper into his husband’s asshole. Stiles knew by heart the exact location of Derek’s prostate and had just found it, twisting his finger back and forth across the miraculous nerve bundle.

Derek was coming apart but still trying to keep it together.

“Big guy just hasn’t had his breakfast yet,” Stiles explained, glancing down casually to note that sweatpants dick was now sweatpants boner, gloriously apparent to anyone knowing what they were seeing, which did not include sweet Letty.

“ _Stiles_ ,” Derek whimpered.

“Well for goodness sake feed the poor thing breakfast, Stiles!” Letty cried, calling upon spousal duty, primary in her code of honor.

Stiles did not relent his fingering, finding various movements, poking in and out, delicately pressing against the proverbial joy button that was making his dearly beloved gasp and twitch.

“ _Stiles_ , gonna—”

“Oh,” Stiles laughed, “he makes this smoothie thing. His secret formula. He’d never trust me to make it for him.”

“Oh, my,” Letty said at the same time Derek managed to assert, “Not true!” which only made Stiles intensify his internal, invisible ministrations.

“Letty, dear, you have a wonderful day. I’m gonna put some protein in my man now,” Stiles announced, and Letty let them go without another word, only a happy grin.

Both Derek and Stiles moved as one from the window. Stiles’s long middle finger was all the way up inside Derek, his free hand pressed against Derek’s lower abs. They got to the kitchen table, out of the sight of Letty, who was back to her raking. Derek’s sweatpants came down, puddling round his ankles. Stiles put a foot on them and Derek stepped out of them completely, bending over the table and finally releasing his moans and huffs freely.

Stiles lay over Derek’s back, kissed his neck, said, “There’s no lube down here, baby.” (How’d such an oversight occur?) “Gonna make you come this way. OK?”

“OK. OK. Yeah, Sti—” Derek gasped.

While Stiles’s magic finger swirled around and over the sweet spot his other hand rode weightlessly on Derek’s as Derek jerked himself to climax.

Stiles stayed flush on Derek’s back, felt Derek’s groan as well as heard it, along with, he imagined at least, the quiet splatter of cum on the kitchen floor. (They’d have to find it later to wipe it up.)

Feeling Derek’s rectal fluttering as he came was one of Stiles’s favorite sensations. Around his finger did not compare to around his cock, but still, it was nice.

His finger felt so cold vacating his husband’s hole.

Stiles stood, running both hands up and down Derek’s back. He massaged his shoulders, his neck, ran his fingers vigorously through Derek’s hair.

After a deep inhale Derek stood too, facing Stiles. They kissed messily, noisily, snuffling through their noses, smacking their lips, their mouths sliding and sucking.

Then Derek pushed against Stiles to make room for himself to drop to his knees. He yanked down Stiles pajama pants and inhaled Stiles’s dick.

Stiles made a sound louder than anything Derek had produced all morning. The suction on his cock struck him like voltage that took away his breath.

“Oh! Oh, _Derek_!” he cried, taking hold of Derek’s head. Stiles felt his stomach muscles convulsing.

“Hmmm?” Derek asked, looking up, his mouth quite full, his lips stretched around Stiles’s dick shaft. It was both funny and fucking hot.

“Since—you’re all… opened up and—prepped—I’d like to…”

“Fuck me?” Derek concluded.

“ _Mmm-hmm._ ”

Derek grinned, standing again. They clinched once more, kissed sloppily, then tangled together shuffled to the stairs.

At their foot Stiles gestured, “You first?”

“Really?” Derek asked.

“I’ll follow that ass anywhere,” Stiles said, giving it a light smack to launch Derek on his way up.

Derek ascended at first with magisterial slowness, then with an undulation that propagated from shoulders to hips and left Stiles mesmerized—so mesmerized that, fixated on Derek’s ass Stiles stumbled going up when he started to follow. He stayed sprawled where he was, heard Derek laugh then, with a turn of his head, whisper, “Smooth move, Romeo.”

Stiles waited till Derek reached the top then rocketed up after him, this time not missing a step.

**Author's Note:**

> The AO3 Tag Generator can be found at: http://generatorland.com/usergenerator.aspx?id=9094


End file.
